


Sick, Sick (Jamack x Reader)

by SunflowerseedMcgibbions



Category: Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts (Cartoon)
Genre: Adult Content, Breeding, Egg kink if you squint, Established Relationship, F/M, Gente dominance, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Sex, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Reader-Insert, Shameless Smut, Size Kink, Slow Build, Vaginal Sex, adult reader, business-casul: now with benefits!, pregnancy kink if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25815055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerseedMcgibbions/pseuds/SunflowerseedMcgibbions
Summary: It's early summer, everything is irritating, he really wants to be near water, you're the only thing he can focus on - he feels as though he's going to explode with energy if he doesn't discharge it somehow. His cheeks expand in a chirp.It's heat season for Jamack, and he's going to be hitting his rut soon.(Time for some more shamless Jamack smut)
Relationships: Jamack (Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts)/You
Comments: 15
Kudos: 86





	Sick, Sick (Jamack x Reader)

**Author's Note:**

> A mini-porn drabble that takes place somewhat along the lines of Hot Water (Jamack x Reader).  
> Everyone seemed to love the first one, so let's indulge in a few more Fandom tropes, shall we?
> 
> 18+ READERS ONLY, READER IS AN ADULT

It's a beautiful early summer day in Las Vistas. Flowers are in bloom, decorating the wild foliage in the sweet scents of changing seasons. The cityscape you find yourselves in is unusually abandoned, the heavy, trodden flora evidence of rains and flooding. All in all, it would be the perfect day.

Except that Jamack doesn't have perfect days. 

Even with an established relationship with you - be it more of the business-casual with benefits, sort - there are times he's still on edge. The climate isn't aiding him today, either. Everything is setting him off, even minor things that he's usually capable of ignoring. The sun is constantly beating down, heating his skin through a cloudless sky. The air is too dry for him, the brightness of mid day leaving him practically sunblind. The tightness of his tie at his neck, rubbing against his throat with every dry, hard swallow. The sweet, intoxicating smell of you surrounding him. The sparking energy building within his gut and limbs. The dirt that kicks up with each heavy step of his shoes. 

Jamack parts his lips and lazily clicks his tongue at the top of his mouth, inhaling a long, slow breath. Everything has added up to a tipping point, and he's especially irritated with the scents around him. The sweet scent of _you_. It's everywhere on him despite the constant scrubbing of his clothes. What he wouldn't give right now for a pressurized can or air disinfectant. Jamack stops walking, head tilting backward and looking up to the sky. 

The tells are all _there_. 

It's early summer, everything is irritating, he _really_ wants to be near water, you're the only thing he can focus on - he feels as though he's going to explode with energy if he doesn't discharge it _somehow_. His cheeks expand in a chirp. 

It's heat season for Jamack, and he's going to be hitting his rut soon. 

Jamacks chin falls to his collarbone as he closes his eyes, rubbing his thumb and forefinger at the slope of his nose. His head is throbbing, on top of everything. _Why_ did his heat have to actually come this year. Why did it have to come full force when he's been excommunicated from his pond, the only place for an outlet. 

You would be a very good _outlet_ , he finds himself thinking. His stomach coils as he inhales shallowly, feeling his body heat up at the thought. You would probably be understanding, sweetly smiling at him in that perfect way that you do, offering your best to help him through his rut. Jamacks thoughts of fantasy interrupt themselves with unfortunate logic. Would you even know what this is for him, or would he need to explain to you - who's probably in sweet, blissful ignorance - just how rough he's going to get? He hasn't even pitched the idea to you and his brain is thinking of the lewd things you'd allow him to do. 

It would certainly be a nice change of pace to the side-stepped brushes with physical contact that you both sought after in the hidden back-alleys.

Or from the too-little fricttion of his hand. 

"Hooo-okay, focus Jamack," he grumbles. The clattering of cans draws his attention back to the present. Rounding the corner of the street is one of the snails around the area, it's size dwarfing the cars beside it. "What's the hurry?" He grumbles to it, fully away he will receive no response. It's moving as if it's spooked, no doubt from you messing around. 

"Hello? Really hope you haven't been kidnapped," he calls, expecting your response. "That would be rich." 

The soft thump of footsteps sound from the building to his right. The object of his thoughts doesn't come from the store front, rather the rooftop above. He quirks his brow, eyes darting from you to the building face below. He lazily angles himself so you're both facing each other. Despite your lack of mobility, you sure can wriggle yourself into the most surprising of places.

You'd be wriggling underneath him when he- 

"Oi, Jamack!" You whisper-shout to him. You peer over the ledge, grinning once his attention is on you. "Don't glare at me. Enough moping. C'mon!" You turn away from your amphibious companion to cross to your original spot at the roof, crouching behind the blocked access door. The rough surface of the roof grinds at your knees through your jeans, so the position isn't comfortable. Unfortunately, it's necessary to avoid drawing attention to yourself.

Jamack is at your side at an instant, crouching down and keeping his weight rolled forward to his toes in a squat. You knew it wouldn't take him as long as you did to get up here, what with that tongue of his. "Thanks for joining," you whisper, "I was beginning to think I'd be doing this myself." You gently elbow him in the ribs.

"How did you even get up here?" He whispers back. He's been stationed at enough stake outs to know you're tracking someone or something. 

"Tree through the window," you hurry your response. "Look, it doesn't matter - won't that come in handy?" Your hand motions outwards to the intersection at the foot of the building. There, at the base of an old lamppost, is an already hitched up dragonfly. "They're in the building - two frogs - see 'em?"

Jamacks eyes squint as he purses his lips. A dragonfly would help in faster travel. Perhaps you two would even be able to locate a lake, or a pond - _something_ his instincts crave during heat season. An excited shiver has him smiling at the distracting promise of combat. "Yeah, and just how do you expect to get it? Waltz over and ask to steal their ride?"

"Well, your suit is fixed. Figured you'd talk to them or somethin'. You're good at intimidating 'nd stuff." You roll your shoulders with a shrug, bottom lip pouting out. "I didn't really think it through yet."

"Do you really think I know every frog?" Accuses Jamack in semi-humor. "Honestly, they aren't even wearing Chelsea boots - they're suits are different cuts, even." Jamack shakes his head, watching the movements of the two below you. "And you call yourself a clothing connoisseur. They're probably from a different bog." 

Your pout intensifies. "Other bog- there's other _ponds_?" You ask softly. The Mod Frogs had always had such a pressing hold of their territory in Las Vistas that you hadn't considered the option of rival gangs. Jamack sighs beside you and you smack his shoulder, furrowing your brow. "Well, 'ya don't gotta be mean about it." 

Jamack grumbles in his throat. His right leg bounces at the memory of scrapping over rival territory disputes. He smiles widely, recalling the multitude of assignments he'd been gifted. There were scraps that ended in a few more bruised and bloodied failures than he'd like to admit, when he first started out. He remembers the feeling of negotiations, of business like standoffs between his coworkers and rival frogs thinking they even had a _chance_ at double crossing the Mod Frogs. 

The peppered recollection of Harris and Kwat sours his memory with the bittersweet taste of nostalgia. His fists clench at the black fabric of his pants and he ignores your peering stare. Jamack loves to talk - a personality problem that has him often sharing more than he should - but the inability to get closure with them will instead be projected into pounding these rival frogs into the dirt. He's a Mod Frog to the end, obedience to his old pond rearing its head under the guise of loyalty. There's a copper taste to his tongue, and Jamack realises he's been chewing it. 

He hates how he depresses his own mood.

"Getting down is going to be hard without being seen," your eyes pull from Jamack. If he noticed you watching him, he hasn't brought attention to it. He's been agitated lately, spiraling between flirting and biting your head off. Now, he's gone and lost himself in thought. While it's usually best to let him stew - he'll talk when he's in a better mood - you're on a time crunch. "You paying attention there? I want that dragonfly before we have to wrangle it out of the air." You chew your lip in thought. You don't have a weapon thanks to your last encounter with the Scooter Skunks and frogs are _agile_. "If you can get the one in the building, I could probably confront the other out in the street. Or at least I could tie down the dragonfly - do they scare easily?" 

"Not necessarily, it depends on the personality of the bug." replies Jamack. You didn't need to talk him into a fight when he was already itching to go. Besides, being up here with you only increases his sensations tenfold, your scent stuck heavy in his nostrils. It's not helping the abundance of energy stuck in his limbs. "Alright, let's get this over with."

You quirk your brow. "Got a plan?" 

Jamack shakes his head, standing proudly and speaking at full volume. "I know a couple pencil pushers when I see them. This will be _easy_." A smirk is all you recieve from Jamack before he places his hand at the edge wall of the roof, vaulting himself over in a fluid, dramatic motion.

A guff tears from your throat as he leaps into the streets below, landing with a hard crouch. He's _insane_ , and definitely not indestructible - what happened to planning out things? He's really trying to distract himself from something, but you're concerned that he's going in over his head.

While it occurs to you that you've never seen him fight, you're inspired by the need to help. He's out of earshot and after the frogs in the building before you're even starting to rapele down the roughed concrete and molded wood of the wall. Your descent is much slower and calculated, your focus on using the windowsills and jutting tree branches as handholds. There's commotion behind you, loud shouts and crashing - and before you can secure a spot to look, something - some _one_ \- green and black is crashing hard into the foot of the wall in front of you. 

There's a throb in your upper chest that resides up your throat, threatening to come as a call to Jamack below. Only, his voice is ringing from across the street. Behind you, Jamack is forcing out the other frog out of the building with a loud clutter. You're picking apart the scene in front of you, brain in overdrive to concoct a solution that would have you benefiting your partner. Jamack's pressured the other frog into the middle of the road, sunlight glinting off the metal crowbar in their right hand. He's easily holding his own - laughably so, actually - he's out of their league in terms of combat. 

Jamack is _toying_ with them, you realise.

A pained, distinct female groan resounds from the frog below you. She's back at her feet and you press against the brick structure of the building as if you'll camouflage to it. Thankfully her attention is not to you but to her companion, then to the brush growth to her left. She's wiping red from the corner of her mouth - you coo quietly in awe that it's not from hitting the stone, but a _fist mark_ from Jamack - and gets back to her feet, grabbing and parting the roughed foliage in a frantic search.

"I thought you _Mod Frogs_ cared about your appearance," quips a higher pitched male voice. The frog near Jamack has settled for antagonizing, buying some time for his partner to approach. "It's not a real fight if we're up against an imposter. Look at you, your _tie_ isn't even full length. What, don't tell me you boss sent someone with a _clipped tie_?" 

"Well, what does that say about _you_ if you both can't even get a hit in?" Jamack jerks backwards at the pink tongue extending out towards him. In a blink, his hands are around the other frog's tongue, gripping it tight between his fingers and pulling backwards hard. "You guys are losing your touch. Did you think I wouldn't notice the _gruntwork_ parole you're doing?" His consonants are punctuated through clenched teeth he keeps the tongue taught. Jamack pivots on his heels, elbows bent and above his head as he lifts the tether upwards and then down over his shoulder. The motion wips the other frog to the sideways. Jamack releases his grip, crashing him into the car as the frog jabbers a pitiful slur of incoherent words. " _Please_ , you think you'll grab me and use me as a business ploy with _your_ boss? I don't think so."

Jamack's sing-song boasting reaches the female frog below you. Your ears notify you of the faint whirring of a weapon and you focus on her again. Her tongue licks across her lips at the trinkle of blood and she stands, left hand gripping the dulled handle of a mace. Her elbow balances the weapons weight she circles it around once, _twice_ , gravity aiding the process until it's spinning at a blurr. 

Fight or flight has your muscles go rigid and your breathing in small pants. There's a tense feeling in the bottom of your gut as you focus on the frog below you, then to Jamack and back again. You're not _that_ high up, perhaps a good eight feet. Though a fall onto the firm ground below isn't the best wager - it'll hurt if you miss, you'll possibly face shoulder dislocation if you land incorrectly - but jumping with style sounds better than falling from your sweaty handholds. 

All you need to do is wait for the frog below to angle just slightly away from you. Becoming a target for that mace isn't in your plan, but remains a forbearing consequence. The brick at your foot comes loose and you slip, concrete tumbling down loud enough to announce your presence. The frog turns to the noise and looks upwards to you, wide eyed and taken back. 

So much for planning; it's now or never. 

"Shit!" You swear as you kick off the building, forced into your plan. Luckily she's looking directly at you with a brief wave of shock. You jut out your knee, the blow connecting hard with her cheekbone and scraping roughly across her brusing lips. You knock her to the pavement below, following through with your momentum into a roll off the dazed landing pad. You're at your feet before the frog even turns to look at you. 

"He-he's got a human with 'im!" Wheezes out the frog in front of you. She's at her side and you're taking a step back into a defencive stance. 

Jamack should have known you were going to follow him down. Though your help was anticipated, he's upset by it. Angry, even, that you're down here aiding him with a job he's more than capable of himself. "Stop trying to jump in and defend me!" He shouts. "I _have_ a plan!"

"Well, it's a little _late_ now -" you're cut off with a loud grunt as the air is forced from you by a punch to your gut. The pink spotted tongue adheres tightly to your clothes and you're being dragged back towards the frog you've been ignoring. You resist long enough for her to have a good hold at you, then you lift your heels, using her own tongue against her as an effort to close the distance. You collide with her again, this time landing a hard elbow into her chest to get her off you. 

"You're with a _human_ ?" Laughs the other frog, recovered from his initial collision with the metal. His legs wobble and he's off balance, but he's grinning at Jamack all the same. "Geeze - you really aren't all you're cracked up to be, are you? Your boss should've cut your _tongue_ for partnering with _her._ Tell you what: you give us the human, and we'll pretend we never saw you."

"Down to bargaining now?" Growls out Jamack and he whips a tongue out to hit the frog. He's done talking after the last comment, his punchies landing with more force. Their combat drags them to close range blows, tongues acting as a whip to attempt to incapacitate the other. There's a loud yelp from the other fight beside him - from _you_ \- and his focus is broken. 

It's a slip up in your part that causes you to be in range of the mace. The frog in front of you swings it downward at an arch and you're dodging with the blow instead of opposite. It doesn't hit with breaking force, but collides with a bruising scrape at your cheekbone. The shock of pain sends you to the ground with a yelp, landing at your side and on your elbow. 

Jamacks stomach churns; you're stubbornly silent when it comes to things that bother you: especially with pain. It's something else he's held you in high regard to, your ability to mask pain as well as an injured Mod Frog - it's a good survival trait - but hearing you vocalise discomfort? It makes his limbs go stiff.

Enough is enough. 

The blows exchanged between Jamack and his mark still come swiftly. Thanks to eyes trained for picking up quick movement, Jamack is able to side step the next attack, swiveling so he's behind the rival frog. He positions his foot behind the dominant one of the frog, and when the attacker turns to step towards Jamack, he's unable to avoid tripping. The frog topples forward, tongue out, and Jamack grips at the pink flesh and digs his fingers into it. Repeating the same motion from earlier, he tugs forward with a surprising amount of force, this time sending the frog flying over his shoulder and towards you.

The frog above you raises her weapon again, intending on landing a full blow into whatever squishy body part she can get. There's a manic grin on her face as you prop yourself at your side, non non-dominant arm quickly raising above your head in a poor attempt to block the spiked metal from crushing something important. 

You flinch, yet not for the reason you were anticipating. The frog Jamack vaulted over his shoulder is tossed directly into the one attacking you, colliding and forcefully sending them yards away. You don't get to see the landing from your position on the ground as well as you hear their crash. As you scrabble to your feet, you're able to witness them successfully incapacitated in a jumble of limbs out in front of you. 

Jamack is a lot better at this - better than _you_ \- than you gave him credit for. You're thankful you never became a target for him when he was fully backed with the resources of the Mod Frogs. "That's something," you murmur to yourself in awe, placing your hands to your hips as you turn to face Jamack. "Hey - let's tie 'em up with their tongues! That'll teach 'em to be rude to you." 

Even though your cheekbone is bruised and bleeding, you smile wide and heartfelt towards Jamack. He supposes you're high off the adrenaline from the fight - it's not a bad thing - your enthusiasm is refreshing. His protest dies in his throat and instead comes out as a churr through his vocal cords. "I'm beginning to believe I'm a bad influence on you." 

You blow air through your lips as you skip over to your attackers - though you both instigated this fight - shaking your head as you get to work. "Nah, if anything I'm picking up on some kick-ass skills from you. You seriously have to show me some of that!" 

Jamack's shoulders are still tensed up as he approaches you, moving around the unconscious frogs to help tie them together. "Well, I'm sure I could show you a thing or two; just don't expect to be as good as me. These frogs seemed to be more of your speed, after all. You took a pretty decent hit." 

Your eyes close as your nose crinkles from another proud smile. Jamack is close enough in your crouched position for you to sway into him, purposely bumping your shoulder into his. "Nothin' gory means no glory," you say. 

Jamack huffs out a chuckle, returning the push with one of his own. "Seriously, you yelled from it. That's going to hurt like hell tomorrow, trust me." It's when you turn to him that his concern is replaced with a stoic, half-lidded stare at the mark on your cheek. Before he can stop himself, his arm is reaching across to you, fingers gently placing themselves at the back of your jaw and forcing your attention on him. "At least it wasn't your eye. That hit would have made one hell of a shiner." _It would have ruined their pretty color_ , he refrains from adding. His thumb brushes across your cheekbone and you visibly flinch, tugging out of his hand. 

It's reactional, he knows, but it only adds to the small pool of guilt rising in his chest. Why he feels guilty for this, he doesn't know. He doesn't want to dive into complicated feelings to know. Jamack is more than happy to blame it on seasonal biology than to explore repressed emotions. His thumb and forefinger rub the red from your cheek in small, kneading circles in-between his fingertips. This shouldn't be affecting him this hard.

Stupid sesonal changes.

There's a flush that spreads across your cheeks after Jamack pulls away. The motion was so gentle for him, and though one side of your face throbs with every blood-pumping heartbeat, you revel in the attention all the same. "If that's the closest I get for a thank you: you're welcome."

Jamack scoffs and pushes to his feet, strolling to the fluttering dragonfly still tied to the lamp post. "It wasn't a thank you, more of a 'get better' sentiment." He flicks his hand towards the startled bug, waving for it to come down. He clicks his tongue on his cheek as he pulls the rope harness from the blue thorax of the bug. The amatures couldn't even control a dragonfly by themselves - what a _shame_.

This would have been a better chance for sparring, if not for him distracted by ending it early. It's not like you dampened the mood, or interrupted the fight - or successfully got yourself _hurt_ \- you'd just taken away an outlet to get his mind off of current events. 

Rationalising this way wasn't helping his mood.

You're tying off the tongues of the duo in front of you as you look them over for the first uninterrupted time. They're both a lime green color, spotted with darker patches along their heads. You pick at the lapel of their suits, eyes squinting as you examine the fabric. "They're sharp," you murmur as you tug at the folded fabric, noting how pointed the cut is. 

" _Sharp_ ?" Quotes Jamack to himself. Sharp as in something eye catching? As in a better looking _suit_ ? His head turns just enough to angle the drum of his ear in your direction. It's quiet, and he sneaks a glance at you inquisitively picking apart the components of their suits. Then you're _tugging at their ties_. "Okay, time to go! Come on, the dragonfly won't wait around all day for us." 

"You don't wanna loot the stores some more? We only got a half a pillowcase of supplies for a few days." You stand, clapping your hands to peel off the silava-adhesive of the tongues you were handling. You sigh at the lack of response, shaking your head. "Yeah, alright, let me just grab our stuff." You turn just as Jamack approaches with the dragonfly, running into the empty building to grab the supplies you stashed. 

" _Do I know them_?" Jamack mumbles, a chirp at the back of his throat as he replays your question from earlier. He kicks at the frog by his feet, making sure they stay in place. 'Sharp suits' and tie touching - those words and your action is running in his head. So much for feeling sorry for you. "You know what?" He addresses your approach, "That's kind of racist. Frog racist."

That was not what you were expecting as you emerged from the building, dragging your supplies behind you. You hadn't processed what he was grumbling and you pause in your step, wracking your brain for the cause of his comment. Somehow, the misconstrued words about suits don't come to your mind. "I am _not_ frog racist," you defend, "I'm not gonna lie: that floored me." The rather strange accusation came out of _nowhere_. 

"Alright then, you're speciesist." He counters.

"I am not - how can I be spechiest if you're my partner?" You're usually one for banter, yet these humored comments have an edge to them. Jamack is nearly pissed off, you've been with him long enough to know the signs. Though you laugh, the tone he's taking is stoking your own irritation quickly. The throbbing of your cheek is starting to settle into the first stages of an ache; you really don't want to argue. "Maybe _you're_ speciesist. You still call me 'human' and debate on selling me off." 

"And I would, too, if I didn't _like_ you so much." He croaks in irritation, cheeks hollowing as his lips purse to let out the sudden intake of air. He's mad this wasn't a good challenge - mad that you risked yourself to help, mad that you're praising these _nobodies_ company dress code.

Jamacks thoughts are strained as he wrangles the dragonfly to you. The poor thing is clearly spooked from the entire ordeal, unfamiliar with it's new handler. The panicked fluttering of its wings has created a dust storm and you step back, coughing from the onslaught of dirt. Even as it starts to dissipate, some is still stuck in your eyes enough to make them water. You exhale with a cough, squinting just enough to see him atop the insect. "You can fly it, right?" 

" _Can I fly it_ ," he scoffs, shaking his head. "If it's got wings I can fly it. Question is: can you ride it?" He takes a spot at the front of the bug, positing himself on the bony thorax. The bug hovers as it waits for you to join, almost tired eyes watching your movements. There's a second of silence before Jamack sighs, shoulders slumping and eyes closing. "You haven't ridden one, have you?"

"No, no, I haven't," you reply, dragging out the vowels. Your teeth find the skin of your lip as you roll it in-between them, handing the sack of supplies to Jamack. You don't let go for a beat even as he grabs it from you, the forceful tug breaking you from your trance. The bug sure is big. "You sure I can just jump on? Like, I don't have to worry about damaging it's - _their -_ wings, do I?"

Jamack sets the bag in his lap, extending his arm out to you. "Just hop on back and hold on if you have to." Your grip at his forearm leaves his skin tingling as he helps hoist you behind him. He wishes that he could hold onto you for a second longer. "Really, I've never heard of someone so concerned for a dragonfly. They're practically built with their own armor." 

Of course _you_ would be concerned over something small like that. 

"Can it keep us both on - we won't be too heavy, right?" 

Jamack snorts in amusement. "It handled taking those two pencil pushers this far. You won't be a problem."

You pay attention to the bony, light blue chitin underneath your thighs as Jamack sharply commands the bug to fly. The initial takeoff is fast, ascending you into the air at a speed greater than you care for. Your stomach drops to your toes as you try to ascertain just how high up you'll be reaching, and with one look down, you decide the angle of ascent is too much for you. Your arms shoot out for the only support you have in front of you: Jamack. Your face buries into his back as you move closely as you can to him, gripping at him tightly to ground yourself. 

Jamack makes a noise at the back of his throat and moves to accommodate you. The dragonfly veers sharply to the left, mistaking the movement as direction. "Hey -!" he shouts, nearly overcasting the whimper from you that vibrates into his back. The noise from you catches him off guard as he straightens the dragonfly, setting you both on a slower pace forward than before. "Hey, you can look now."

You're not comfortable enough to let go from your hold at Jamack, though you reluctantly follow his suggestion. Breathing is harder due to the altitude - especially _not_ because you have a newfound fear of heights - but you maintain strong as the scenic view passes by. 

Selfish thoughts overpower Jamack's newfound instincts of catering to your discomfort. That little whimper from you was a nice little dose of payback for you mouthing off about some nobody-frogs choice of clothing - and handling their _ties_ . There's another churr from him that's thankfully drowned out by the hum of the dragonfly's wings. He _likes_ you relying on him in this way. He likes the feeling of your arms around his torso, needily gripping at the fabric of his clothes. It's an indulgent moment that he hasn't gotten to feel from you in a few days, partly due to his own stubbornness of not falling for those stupid 'hugs' that humans just so freely give out - it's not like he _likes_ them, or anything. 

There's a throb between his legs as his emotions betray his true feelings. You're a warm cuddle up here, that's for sure. 

The amount of height that you're used to - rooftops and tree climbing - isn't anything compared to riding at the back of a dragonfly. The scenic view is breathtaking, but perhaps that's the anxiety gnawing at your core at the threat of falling. "Y-you gotta show me how to do this, too," you say over to Jamack. 

He eyes you over his shoulder, the lopsided smile at your features stirring up more affection towards you. "I don't know, I think I finally found something you're scared of. You think you could handle actually _flying_ it?"

You move to slap him, yet quickly regain your spot flush against his backside. "Yes, _I think_ _actually I can_." 

Jamack laughs, purpously having the ride jerk sharply just to elicit some payback. "Yeah, well when you learn to speak coherently again, maybe I'll let you drive."

The next jerk has you shouting explicit words his way, and then the dragonfly descends through the clouds. Jamack _says_ it's because you're far enough to start looking for a resting place, but you know better. You swear at some points the smug bastard is trying to throw you off. You scoot closer to him, hips now flush against his backside as well. 

Jamack tenses and his back straightens up. How dare you make a move on him like that - up here, in the air - where he can't retaliate. His face heats up; as hard as he tries to convince himself it's from anger, the chirp from his vocal cords proves otherwise. 

This is going to be a long ride. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


It's Jamack who's been actively searching for the familiar glint of water, yet you're the first to find it. Finally brave enough to pull from him, you motion out to the left. "Ooo, Jamack - that's a pretty pond! It's practically a lake," you say over the hum of the dragonfly's wings, grunting when he veers to the right. You're able to at least sit upright without worry now, but you refuse to let go of your hold on him. 

Jamack circles around the area once, scouting for a descent spot to land. Despite your protests, he depends at a fast speed, successfully ticking you off more. It's here you both temporarily part: you, to set up a little human-approved sleeping nest and Jamack, who's finding a place to bargain with the dragonfly to stay. 

Setting up camp came as a happy distraction from Jamack. He's been snappier today with you; the banter between you isn't jestful anymore. Sometimes a break is what's needed, a few moments of decompressing. You're actually starting to worry about his current state. He's clearly irate at something, and your stomach is clenching at the thought that you can't fix it. After everything you try, Jamack is still biting your head off at even the smallest of movements. 

You're not the cause of it, are you?

You're at least happy to have found the overgrown willow tree by a lake. Well, the thanks goes to Jamack for picking out this one; his keen eye was the one to pinpoint it. The main branches grow out sideways, over the water, foliage dense enough to provide a welcome umbrella to the outside world. You're stuffing the hollowed base with supplies you've acquired - blankets, snacks, that sort of thing - while Jamack is preoccupied by the shoreline. If you're able to coax him, perhaps the two of you would fit snugly enough in the pile of blankets you've collected. A bit of rest and relaxation might even have him open up as to what's troubling him. You turn to find Jamack, but the roots of the tree provide just enough of a hill to block your view of him.

"Jamack?" You call out, the stuffed pillowcase of assorted food dropping off your shoulder and to the ground. The last contents spill forward, and you curse. Your reflexes overcorrect, hand jutting forward and knocking them down the hill. Before it hits the water of the pond, you hear the distinctive crushing of pebbles underfoot. You voice frustration as you stand.

Clearing the top of the mound, you see Jamack has stopped the item under his shoe. His blazer is slung over his shoulder, holding on by two of his fingers hooking at the collar. Your eyes squint at the sight. Usually, seeing him like this is a spark of arousal, or the need to just touch your brooding partner. Right now, though, you feel frustrated. 

And then downright _mad_ when Jamack is crushing the item into the rocks below. 

"Alright, that is _it_ ," you shout, stepping heavy down the hillside and sliding, putting you off balance. The entire display seems to startle Jamack, who visibly jerks and looks to you with wide eyes. "What is going on, okay? Like," you raise your arms with an exasperated sigh, palms falling at your legs with a pap, "You've been just a downright ass today - acting like a toddler. You're not sick, so don't even try that with me. So spill." 

Jamack is instinctually on the defensive. Your sudden outburst is far from the usual calm demeanor he gets from you, and right now that's the wrong approach with him. He glares back at you, lips pressed tightly together before he speaks. You're suddenly mad at _him_ ? "An ass, huh? Well, I hate to say it, but _you_ haven't been that helpful to me either!" 

" _How_ have I not been helpful?" You exasperate.

Jamacks tucks an arm to his chest, the opposite elbow held in the palm of his hand. "You get yourself hurt, for _one_ ," his index finger extends,"You try and take over when you're not needed, for _two._ " His middle finger extends as well, and you're gnashing your teeth together. The smug bastard is counting the reasons on his hand. " - us out in the middle of nowhere for _three_ \- " 

"I was getting us somewhere depopulated to _rest_ for once-" you try to interject. 

" - four! You _clearly_ have a preference for a 'sharper look'. So no, you're. Not. Helping." Jamack speaks over you, his own voice a natural pitch louder than yours. 

"So, _that's_ what this is about?" Of course it was you messing with those frogs back in the street. Everything is about clothes with the Mod Frogs - _why wouldn't it be_ \- and Jamack is still no exception. You tilt your head down, pinching the bridge of your nose as you scrunch your face together in frustration. "That wasn't what it - augh - look, I was just noting the differences -"

"You observe with your eyes, not your hands. _Tie puller_." 

"Augh - I'm trying to help!" You stress. Now, you don't give him the chance to reply. Laughing angrily through your words, you cut Jamack off from his next attempt at talking. Arguing about fashion choices with him is going to get you two nowhere, given the odd societal clues of Mod Frogs you've picked up on. "Oh-ho-hooh, you know what? Don't derail me; you've been an ass. You're biting my head off, putting me down and - hell you even tried to throw me off the dragonfly!" You shout the last part, teeth gnashing together. 

"It's not like I was trying to. I wasn't going to let you _fall_ ." It's not an apology, moreas a poorly placed sidestep of your callout. He did take some sort of sick pleasure from you gripping him tighter every time he 'accidentally' over-corrected the path. "I used them for my _job._ I'm not going to lose you ten stories in the air."

 _That was way more than ten stories_ , you want to fight. "Listen: I'm tired, I have a headache and my face _hurts_ ," you enunciate, one hand motioning to the wound across your cheek before it settles at your hips. "I'm not petty fighting like a toddler."

There's silence, guilt settling both your shoulders in a heavy blanket. You inhale slowly, running a hand through your hair. "Look, Jamack, I'm sorry alright? Just," you look to him, eyes wide and brows furrowed, lips in a slight frown, "Just tell me what's up. If I can't physically help, at least tell me what's going on." You just want him to use his _words_ , dammit. "I'm not gonna judge you or anything."

Jamack inhales long and slow until his lungs burn. In a quick whoosh, he forces the air out, turning so his side is to you. "Look, I'm…" God, how can he even face you with this? It was much easier fantasizing about the sex, but he's nervous about bringing this up to you. He's done the act with you before, instigated it even; so why is it so hard now? The gnawing in his gut is overwhelming. The look you're giving him, that heartfelt pout nags at his conscious enough to have his foot tapping quickly. He has to remember that you're very much _human_ , not the back-stabbing frogs he's used to distancing from.

"Ever since I've been _out_ of my home, things have been out of whack for me. Right?" He starts slow, fighting off his ingrained stubbornness to win an argument.

You know it's not a question, so you stay silent, hands at your sides. You're studying him intensely. He's stiff, foot tapping as he's started a rant to you. This is progress, at least. You suck the corner of your bottom lip, closely monitoring his mannerisms. He's not mad, per say, but _frustrated_? Be it his lack of words, the current lack of contact, the situation - it's something.

"Right. So, of course I don't pay attention to how things are going. This wasn't a _problem_ when I was back at the bog. I had my own private _place_." He's pacing now, back and forth in front of you. The smooth stones crush underfoot, a metronome of ambience to the building confession. "But no, now I'm stuck here like this, and everything is turned up." 

"Turned up?" You clarify. He's not making much sense to you, but at least you feel better for letting him talk through his troubles, no matter how scrambled the thought. 

" _Intensified_ ," Jamack corrects. "The sun is too hot, this air is too dry and everything, _everything_ I own? It smells like you. How am I supposed to just ignore that?" He laughs but it's empty. The right arm holding his jacket whips forward, holding his blazer in front of him and shaking it off. "There's nothing for me to _do_ to distract myself. There's no assignments, there's no one to spar with - those poor excuses of frogs didn't even put up a challenge for me." He throws his balzer suddenly, the jacket hitting a low hanging branch hard and wrapping around it. "There's no _reason_ to be hit this hard." 

The blatant disregard of his suit jacket has you at attention. He's suffering through something, and at the mention of your 'smell', the cause is starting to piece together in your brain. "Jamack," you say softly. "If you're hot, how about cooling off in the pond? You need water, yeah?"

" _Don't_ patronize me," he snaps, immediately softening at those big eyes you're giving him. "Look, I'm giving you a chance at an out, is all."

"How can I have an 'out' if i have no idea what I'm getting into?" You chide. It's as if he's poorly trying to strike some sort of business deal with you. You tentatively step closer. When he doesn't hesitate, you lift your hand, the tips of your fingers brushing at his chest. What comes as a surprise is the warmth underneath your palm, even through his shirt. He's nearly as warm as you. 

Jamack's throat has finally started following his rapid breathing. Each breath his vocal cords inflate partway with a chirp, deflating as he exhales. Your touch was like _fire_ to him; he can still feel the lingering sensation. Why of all the times was his rut coming on full force? It had never, _ever_ been this bad years prior. Even during rough patches, he still was able to remain calm and composed while arranging 'private meetings'. And boy, did he crave those intimate ones. Jamack pulls away from you, clearing his throat during his last chirp. He kicks off his shoe, leaning slightly to the side to utilize the tongue as leverage to remove the other. Once his socks are off as well, Jamack takes a few strides into the cool pond water.

Maybe he did need to cool off. After all, he's been restricted from the familiar long enough to drive him mad. Even back home, under the protection of his pond, Jamack never indulged in the laughable act of swimming. He certainly wasn't going to give you the opportunity to mock him for wanting the cool water against his aching skin. While you've become the new promise of comfort, it doesn't cover the instinctual longing for water that's built into his DNA. 

Though, you're not _judgemental_ , he reasons, and it's common for the _acts_ of heat season to happen in water. Wading out until the liquid is mid-calf has to be a comfort.

The water is not helping. 

If anything, it arises deep-rooted longing and sparks his urges. He lets his thoughts wander to courting back at the pond, remembering how it felt to be a young adult going through heat season for the first time. The memory of calling out in loud, boastful croaks for someone to respond and accept _him_ has his vocal cords vibrating in soft ribbits. He even learned to sing - no, _serenade_ \- on the off chance he'd be able to perform privately for a temporary lover.

As if _that_ worked.

Over the years, he only ever received a response once or twice. Rejection had him seeking other outlets - primarily mutes outside his own species who could at least hold decent conversation - spiteful, under the table interactions with his companio- no, _coworkers_. At least he could attract them. 

At least _you're_ attracted to him. 

He would have rather courted you somewhere beautiful, a personal desire to prove his affections. Jamack would take his rut somewhere private with you, keeping you flush against him at the soft lily pads of a secluded pond. You were excellent the first time you slept together, and he knows you'd sing so sweetly back to him once he - 

Jamack croaks again, depressing and longing thoughts hit by yet another wave of arousal from his rut. His leg jerks down in a stomp, impatiently tapping at the mud underfoot.

You laugh nervously at his display. The ripples generated by his tapping leg disrupt the relatively calm pond water. He's gone quiet in thought, and as much as you want to pry, you know Jamack has already been talking more than he's comfortable with. The ringing comfort of Jamack's chirping reaches your ears, yet he's made no move to show you. "Ah, boy, you're just a rollercoaster of emotions, aren't you?" You talk under your breath. 

Slipping out of your own shoes and socks, you dig the heels into the rocks to prevent them from sliding into the gently lapping waves. Unlike Jamack, you cuff the fabric of your pant legs before you wade out after him. You follow him partway, intruding on the bubble of personal space he prefers to keep. "Okay, so, nervous again?" When he looks at you, your hand motions over your throat, then points to his. "You only do that when you're panicking, or mad, or when we're having -"

"Don't. Don't say it," he cuts you off, then groans, hands at his forehead. He turns to you, arm moving back as if touching you will startle you away. Though the water gave away your approach, you're a lot closer than he anticipated. Arousal colors his face as he peers down at you. You followed him out into the water, while he was chirping - _calling._ The irony isn't lost to him, causing his heart to swell with a sudden surge of pride. "It's early summer, yeah? That's the typical heat cycle for the pond." Briefly, he wonders if the meaning of your actions hides knowledge about the more intricacies of Mod Frog courting.

Your brows pull together. "It's not even that hot out." You know your statement sounds stupid, and by this point, context clues have already given you answers to Jamack's behavior. The heat, constant irritation, your _smell_ \- you just want to hear him _say_ it.

Jamack croaks in frustration, both hands clenching. "You're so lucky you're beautiful," he inhales the statement under his breath. "Heat cycles! Like, mating and going into a rut! You know, seasonal changes that happen for every mute?" He can't believe he has to explain this to you. Jamack searches your face, lips pursing and nose scrunching at your wide grin. It dawns on him just as slowly as it took you to realise what's been plaguing Jamack: you've been toying with him. "And," he draws out, "Humans don't have heat cycles."

"Oh, you're in heat? I figured _that_ out." You're grinning madly. Heat cycles are something you've always pondered. It makes sense for mammals to still have the gene in their biology, but you never could have guessed that amphibians were affected just the same. "Nope! Nope, we don't really have anything like that." The tense atmosphere settled upon you two has finally been shattered by a breakthrough. You find yourself laughing at the absurdity of it all. _That's_ why he's been such an ass lately. Seasonal hormones have been driving his emotions off the wall. 

Jamack has been _horny_. 

"Yeah yeah, laugh it up," he gripes, arms crossed over his chest. "You should just be lucky that you guys don't have to go through this. Seriously!" He groans again. Why is your _laugh_ of all things such a turn on for him. You're just so open with what you're feeling, so confident in showing off your emotions. If he was back at the pond with you, actions like that would be asking for a beating. Confidence like yours - as viewed from his upbringing - is such an attraction, and fueled by his cycle, the heat has started pooling at his crotch. "Listen, seriously, I'm actually giving you advice here. I'm getting hit hard by this, alright?"

"Alright alright," you wheeze. "How long does this last for you, typically?"

"I don't know. A day or two, a week - _maybe_? It gets worse and lasts longer when there's females around in heat at the same time." 

"Females," you joke at the terminology, air quoting Jamack. 

"Exactly." He deadpans, electing to ignore your mimicry. "Which is why this doesn't make _sense_ . There were barely enough female coworkers at my pond to cause this much of a reaction, and even then I _never_ was hit full force by a rut before." Of course, he always found a way - be it frog or other mute - for an outlet; he doesn't feel like adding that statement will help the situation. Jamack inhales slowly, then sharply, catching the scent of you. The scent he's been trying to rid from his clothes for days; the lingering sweetness that travels straight to his crotch and hammers in his chest. He studies you for a moment, eyes squinted. "Humans _really_ don't have this?"

You shake your head. "No, like I told you!" The intensity of his stare has your stomach clenching. Jamack has always been good at prying information out of you - a born and learned trait, perhaps - and you feel he wants to know more than you're letting on. "Well, not _really_? I mean, I usually get uhm," you pause midway, cheeks dusting pink, "Hornier the week before my period, but…." The longer you talk, the slower and quieter you get. 

You don't even finish your sentence before Jamack is closing the gap between you. He stands over you, breathing in controlled gulps of air. Though you're embarrassed, you oddly feel as if being the first to break eye contact will have you at a disadvantage. 

You chose to follow him, after all. Shyness will not intimidate you out of flirting. 

Up close, Jamack is having a very, _very_ hard time retaining self control. Your smell is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He indulges for a moment, inhaling long and slow before opening his eyes and staring at you. When did he close them again? His pupils are blown wide and his head is screaming at him to take action and make you _his_. "That counts." His hand lifts and pokes hard at your sternum, fingers dipping idly down the valley of your breasts. "And you're on that right now, _aren't_ _you_?"

You sheepishly nod, not confident enough to verbalize an answer. It's your turn for your face to go cherry red. You press your lips tightly together. Hiding the grin is getting hard with Jamack this close, and you're fighting the urge to giggle. _You_ were the reason Jamack was going absolutely insane right now. No wonder why you couldn't help him, intentions innocent as they were. If anything, the pining look he's giving you is almost _pained_. "So, what do you need, then? You gonna use your words and ask?"

"What I _need_ ," Jamack strains, tugging at the knot of his tie to loosen it. "Is to _take care_ of this. You'll especially help." 

Jamacks voice holds a gravely undertone, one that you haven't heard before. It spurs you onward, giddy with anticipation. A slurry of emotions well inside you, trapping you in anticipation and arousal. His tone has you on edge, a grin splitting your face.

"Oh? How's that?" You ask innocently. You take the initiative and grab at the loose hanging tie, tugging Jamack down into you so you're pressing against his chest. The angle is awkward - your head has to lean significantly backward to avoid clashing with his - but you're glad to have the contact. "You gonna _breed_ me?" 

The words hit Jamacks slit just as fast as his ears, and he groans in response, leading into a croak. There's a combative, breathy chuckle as he shakes his head. His forehead falls, cheeks deflating as he brushes into the crook of your neck. You sure do pick up the _sweetest_ of terminology from him. 

He is a bad influence on you. 

His hands secure themselves with bruising force at your hips, dragging you so you're pressed tightly against him. "You okay with getting rough?" he murmurs into the shell of your ear, lips catching at the cartilage, "If you'll have me, I'd _love_ you to help me through this. It's been awhile since anyone has." 

A shiver rolls down your spine, warming the space between your thighs. You nod shakily, tilting your head to the side to make room for his. In truth, you have no idea what you're getting into. Jamack and you have fooled around a few times since your first night together intimately, but mostly, you've both settled on teasing. It's not exactly easy getting it on when there are so many dangers to watch out for. " _Been awhile_ ," you tease, "What: our past escapades not doing it for you?"

"We've done it _twice_ ," he grumbles in impatience. Knock on wood- you've been the luckiest amount of continued action Jamack has ever gotten. "If you let me, I _promise_ I'll take care of you," Jamacks tense lips are grazing at the crook of your neck, damp breath warming the area of your shoulder. "If you'll let me use you for this." His eyes are scrunched tightly in anticipation of your answer. He knows you'll do so - what with mammals and their grouping with established mates - yet his history of rejection still leaves him second guessing.

It's not like he _wants_ you to keep choosing him, or to stay with him, or to partner up for a longer term - those are desires he needs to hate, not cater to. After all, Jamack never makes promises. 

It's as close to a beg as you're going to get with him, this mock-demand. Your grip at his shoulder goes white-knuckle tight, balling the fabric at your fingertips. The flat pad of his tongue lewdly laps at the joint of your neck, searching for the spot that makes you squirm. " _Jamack,_ " you whimper, and his teeth find the sensitive bundle of nerves just below your ear. 

Jamacks hands move to your ribcage, placing themselves at your sides just below your chest. He grips you firmly, needily, as his lips work at your neck, nipping and sucking with fever. It's easy for his pursed lips to cover tbe near entirety of your neck due to the size difference. Your knees knock against each other and give from the stimulation. Luckily you're held up by Jamack, else the tickling shock of pleasure at your neck would have you falling down to the water. "Hah-he-hey, don't bruise me up now," you whine.

"J-jamack, seriously," you feebly push at his chest until he finally removes himself from your neck. You're left stunned and blinking, a sly smile left at your lips as one hand rubs at the sore spot below your ear. It's going to one bruise of a hickey he's left on you. You chew your lip, stepping back a pace until the water is at your ankles. The rocks beneath your feet have you stepping unevenly and you nearly tumble. "Alright, 'm taking these off before they're soaked again." 

Your fingers are shaking in anticipation, nimbly working at the button of your pants. You're not going to be stuck sopping about in wet clothes again, that's for sure. You're hobbling about, trying your best to stand on one leg and ball the fabric of your jeans to keep them from hitting the water, or water jumping up the pant leg. "Harder than it looks," you grumble, finally tugging them off and tossing them to the shoreline. Your eyes finally look for Jamack again, smiling wide at the sight before you. 

In the time it took you to strip your pants and underwear, Jamack has undone every button of his collared shirt. He's chewing his tongue in anticipation as he whips the fabric out from his waistline, deft fingers going for the button of his own pants. His fly is down in a blink and he looks to you, breath deepening. "Keep it on," he quickly interjects, pacing forward to you. "Shirt off, bra on. I wanna have a view." 

You giggle - a new sound Jamack is easily getting accompanied with - as you tug off your shirt, tossing it to the shoreline with your other clothing. "What, am I not cute enough with it off?"

"You're _gorgeous_ ," Jamack slurs the compliment, and your chest is blooming with praise. 

"On your knees," he commands, hands at your shoulders and pushing. You comply oh so quickly and his cock pulses against his slit, eagerly awaiting to be buried in your throat. "I want you to use your pretty little lips to suck on me again." 

You grin at the thought, standing on your knees to be able to reach Jamack's crotch. "Are you gonna be getting undressed or no?" You flick your eyes upwards to look at him, not able to get a good view of his face from your position.

"And have us both exposed in the middle of nowhere?" He shakes his head. "Just get to it already." The statement comes as more of a greedy moan than a command, Jamack flashing you a crooked smile. 

"Oh, but _I'm_ okay being exposed, huh?" You slide your hands through his undone fly, pushing the fabric of his pants out of the way. "Glad to oblige," you murmur, hands tugging the fabric of his boxer brief upwards enough to expose the opening between the cloth. Eager fingertips reach through the hole, rubbing at the raised mound of his sheath. You intently rub at the sides of the mound, earning a small, keening churr from Jamack. Ready to please, your fingertip slides over the leaking slit, curiously running the tip of your index finger along the quickly widening opening. Jamack jerks, patting away your hands before pushing the band of his underwear down beneath his slit. 

"If i didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to shut me up," you tease, one hand holding the hem of his underwear below his cock.

"You've got a smart mouth and I want you to get to it already," snaps the ever impatient Jamack. Relief comes in the form of those soft, plush lips he loves. Once his cock distends, it's immediately sheathed in the warm cavern of your mouth - as much as you can handle, that is. His fingers drag along your scalp, gripping at the base of your hair and tugging you forward firmly. "Oh, _that's_ it," he breathes, eyes closing. 

You shouldn't have shown him that humans do this for fun. He's addicted to the feeling. He hates feeling this needy and reactive. 

The memorable flour-like taste is soon filling your senses, his cock sitting heavy along the center of your tongue. It easily stretches your mouth wide when you reach his midway point, reminding you of just how large Jamack is. You hum in thought, eagerly anticipating the memorable ridges and bumps. He thrusts hard into your mouth and you choke, recioling against his hands to keep him from grinding deeper. You're not gagging from the pressure yet but the motion causes you to swallow around him and Jamack chirps. 

You want to glare at him from the movement, but even with your eyes cast up, you're unable to see much from the position. What you do see is his parted lips and the pink of his tongue resting at the corner. You indulge - not without keeping your hands firmly planted at the soft, light green flesh of his hips as a brace - in case he gets ahead of himself - sucking and rubbing your tongue against his shaft. You make sure to pay attention to the six leaking divots along the underside, the spots you know drive him crazy. 

"You have the prettiest eyes," Jamack says horsley to where you almost miss it from below him. You look up through your lashes, face growing hot as Jamack moves to peer down at you. You haven't even been on his cock long but you pull back all the same, completely covered from the constant drool of slick from the tip and divots of his cock.

"Yeah?" You ask so innocently as you pull back, poorly attempting to remove the slick coating your chin and hands. Your mouth is salivating to remove the foreign, slimy substance. This is a _lot_ more than usual - which is odd, since you're used to the biological differences in the amount of pre he produces.

Oh, you look too _cute_. Jamack pulls away with heavy trodden steps, eyes fully dilated and chest heaving. His heart rate is elevated so much that he can hear it throbbing loud in his eardrums. His cock stands erect and he's leaking even more than usual, a messy side effect to his rut. "Come here," he beacons forward as he crouches, using one arm to break his descent. He sits hard in the water and it pools over the crevice of his legs, surrounding the base of his cock. The cool water is so soothing against his heated skin, but the air is too cold without the heat of your mouth. 

"One day you'll have to let me finish you off that way," you murmur.

"It's gross," he comments. Though, that could be an excellent idea for later. 

"I literally just had you in my mouth - what's the difference?" You laugh. "So, we're going at it in the water?" You question, following nonetheless. You're sloshing forward, unsure of how he wants the main event to take place. Jamacks lips part, pink tongue poised between them. For a moment you believe he's going to clarify your thoughts.

"Can't we do this like, on a towel or-" your eyes widen when his tongue distends further, realising what's about to happen too late. "Jamack don't you dare-!" You warn through a smile, thumping backward against the water and spinning to get to the shoreline. 

You're moving too _slow_ and Jamack is inpatient. You're right there and he can see the glistening of your excitement against your thighs through the small tuft of hair. In a flash his tongue darts forward, securing it tightly around your torso and dragging you to him. If you're wanting him to _chase_ you, you're going to lose. The squeal and onslaught of giggles that vibrate through his tongue bring a crafty grin to his features. You whip backward to him, the softness of your back landing against his bare chest with an audible smack. Jamacks tongue recoils with a comical whip, his right hand grasping your wrist and securing it firmly to your side. 

You're pinned to him, legs wide and back flush to his smooth chest as his cock rests flat at your belly. Sitting on Jamack's lap like this has you feeling rather exposed, bare to the surroundings about you. Nerves get the best of you as you stare at the pink flesh of his cock currently drooling between your thighs. You squeeze them tightly around it, feeling the dull, aching pulse of excitement running through his full length. You're grinning in anticipation.

"Up," he softly demands. You nod as he shifts you, taking the hint and rocking forward with a nudge of Jamacks hips. His hands settle temporarily at the edge of your thighs, fingers digging roughly into the underside of your legs. Jamack just wants to be in you already.

"You better go slow," you worry, feeling his cock drag against your thighs as you lean forward to stand on your knees. It's an always pleasant stretch initially, but there's so much more to Jamacks length than that of anyone you've ever been with. You make no move to stop him as the squishy, warm tip of his cockhead pokes at your entrance. His hands tug you backward and into his lap again, sinking inch after inch slowly into your warmth. 

"There you go," Jamack groans, his head lolling to the side as the warm vice of your pussly clamps down on him. His eyes close tightly and he nuzzles into your shoulder and the top of your arm. He pulls you flush against him as you guide yourself down, hands back at your wrist and securing it to your side. The other hand fans out over your stomach, then lower, feeling the slight distend of your underbelly. 

You're not made to take him, but you do _so well_.

Your jaw falls open in a breathy moan as Jamack inches into you. Just when his cock starts to stretch you in a slight twinge of pain, your ass settles comfortably at his legs. From this position, he doesn't fully sink into you - there's still the fat girth of his base that stays out of you by a few inches - but you're delightfully full. You shiver when he twitches inside you, feeling each pulse of his cock as he lets you settle. 

"Enough time - can I start yet?" Jamack pieces together the words, restraining himself from pistoning into you. You're so delightfully tight around him and so, _so_ much warmer that he remembers, so _silky_ smooth - he can't help it. His hips move of their own accord, thrusting upward in shallow, slow movements. 

The water below sloshes with you both, an excellent contrast to the warm flush that's heated your body. 

You bite your lip and look down between your legs, watching the cock buried in you begin to pump in and out. It's entrancing, being able to watch the pleasure he gives - and takes - from you. There's already a good amount of slick from ypu both,, the excess of pre he produces coating your thighs and the base of his cock in a glistening mess. He slides around effortlessly inside you. You shudder, the sight making you clench around him. 

" _Oh,_ that's what I _need_ , doll," Jamack praises, his pet name for you already passing his lips. He thrusts harder into you, seeking more of that massaging vice of your pussy. The hesitation for you to accommodate him dissipates with every thrust, and soon he's moving at a fast, hard pace. He's unabashadley vocal at your shoulder each time he sheathes himself into you, the noise peppered with churrs and moans. "You're being so good to me doll, _so good_ . You're just what I _needed_."

You moan in response, cheeks dusting pink from the ramble of praise. Jamack has to be as entranced with the feeling as you are, if he's narrating the same words repeatedly. There's something soft and damp dragging along your ribcage and your focus is pulled to it. Jamacks tongue has found its way from his mouth and over your arm, pushing at the taught edge of underwire at your bra. You whine and squirm from the feeling, suddenly aware of how bare you are, body pressed against his yet on display. You turn your head to the side as his tongue glazes over the cup of your bra then dips in it, pushing the strap of your shoulder down in the process. 

You're too distracted by the multitude of sensations as well as the smacking sound of his cock pumping into you. 

The hand at your ribcage is suddenly grabbing at your cheek, turning your head so you're nuzzling back into his. He grabs too roughly, thumb moving over your cut cheekbone and you flinch from the bruise inflicted earlier. Whatever pleasure you had building is suddenly taken from you as you focus on the dull ache of the mark. You make a noise of frustration, hand reaching between your legs to build back to where you just were. Snapping to reality like that has you losing focus, the intensity of sex dulling. 

It's enough of a sudden change for Jamack to notice, yet not enough for him to stop or apologise. One of his eyes opens part way to search your face, making sure you're not actually hurt. A little bit of discomfort he can ignore - as long as you're not asking to stop - as he's already buried so deep into you that he doesn't want to pull out. His intent was to keep you nuzzled to him, not to mess with anything that would ruin the moment. 

And then your hand is between your legs, rubbing at your clit and causing you to tighten around Jamack. You whine, pathetic and off-key at the stimulation. Both his eyes go half lidded as he presses his nose to your arm, just able to see the mess he's making between your legs. It's a lewd display that has a proud surge of arousal guide him closer to his end. He's almost to his release and his hips thrust into you hard, tongue coiling tighter around your breast and massaging at the nub of your nipple. 

You moan out Jamack's name suddenly, a shudder of a much too early orgasm rippling through you. You suppose it's from the distraction of your cheek, or really the position - this angle doesn't hit all the spots you need to blackout from pleasure. Still, it's a pleasant peak you've reached. Nowhere near satisfying, but pleasant. 

It's Jamack's name at your lips that has him ready to flood you with his cum, followed by every muscle of your pelvis undulating around him. Jamack's hips slam into you once, twice, three times, before he reaches his own peak with a croak. 

_There's_ the full sensation that you're used to, being flooded with the obscene amount of cum from Jamack's release. It quickly surpasses what you can hold and leaks out around your thighs in a mess. A ghost of a lopsided smile is at your lips as his hands release you, and you roll forward to your knees to relieve the pressure in your gut, Jamack sliding out of you in the process. "Geeze, you sure do make a lot," you murmur, watching the rivulets of cum roll down into the water below. "You frogs really need all that to make tadpoles during your heat? what, gotta make sure all of 'em get coated?" 

It's meant as a joke, though when you look at Jamack, his pupils are blown _wide_. He's watching your movements with an animalistic single-mindedness. There's a small, taught smile at your lips as you give him a once over. 

He's pushing down his pants further, shrugging off his shirt - 

"There's usually a lot more than that," Jamack says, voice gravely with lust, "And I'm not through with you yet." 

You squeak - an embarrassing reaction - as you're forcibly guided to your hands and knees. Your lower half is still lapped at by the cold waves of the pond, and Jamack's hands are at your shoulders, silently commanding you to lie forward. The smooth pebbles give under the weight of your chest, your dominant arm stuck underneath you, the other bent at an angle to prop you up. 

From this position, face down and hips in the air, you have a pretty good inclination at what he's about to do. You're pretty sure you'd let Jamack do anything at this point, just to chase a better feeling of release than the one you had. 

Your mind whispers this wasn't the climax he needed as well, right before his hips are angled so he's plunging into you again. The stretch is just like before, and then he sinks deeper, and _deeper_ with the angle, filling you uncomfortable full. Your brows knit as you start to reach your limit, the warm skin of his hips reaching your ass just before you vocalise him to stop. That fat base of his length is spreading your opening much wider than before. You're panting, you realise, as you turn your head to rest your non-hurt cheek against the cool stones. 

He's sure not wasting any time. 

"Don't worry, I made a deal I'd take care of you," Jamack says, punctuated by a rough thrust into you, "Didn't I, _doll_?" He leans down, snaking an arm around your midsection to pull you close to him. His mouth is at your shoulder before he starts pistoning his cock unto you, lavishly kissing to the bend of your neck. 

"Oh, _that's it_ ," he breathes. At this position - this angle - he's seated much deeper in you and your walls rub at different spots along his shaft. "I should've taken you like this sooner," he babbles, followed by a chirp of his throat. _This_ is what his instincts have been screaming at him to do this entire day. To have you beneath him, back to chest, to keep _filling_ you. 

While you felt exposed and vulnerable before, this is a whole different sensation being pressed against the shoreline of the pond. You're overwhelmed again - just like your first time with Jamack - pinned underneath the insistent weight of his hips. " _Fuck_ , Jamack," you blurt out, "Tha-mhh-'s, tha's deep." Your hips rock back into him at their own accord, aching to be stuffed. Jamack, quick to adapt with your rhythm, sinks inch after inch into you again, and again, _and again_.

The arm trapped under your torso reaches lower causing you to arch into Jamack, who eagerly presses back into you. He's pinned you down as if you're skittish; like one wrong move and you'll escape from underneath him and leave him to his own hands. Your fingers find your clit with a jerk. You're raw-like sensitive from your mock orgasam, yet you rub in lazy, three fingered circles at the nub. You moan with a drunk smile, cheek pushing against the rocks as your eyes droop low. Jamacks impatience is a deft struggle that you can feel, and you wish you could see the faces he makes as he takes you.

Jamack is chirping and croaking to you. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he remembers frog calls can be heard for _miles_ , but the thought spurs his lust into a greater spiral _. Let_ everyone hear how good of a _fuck_ \- a _mate_ \- he is for you. 

His hips snap against yours at the idea, particularly rough like he can't help himself. You're underneath him, taking him oh so sweetly, that drunk-with-pleasure look in your eyes an addicting sight. Each particularly hard rub of your clit has your walls claiming down and massaging him deeper. With a moan, he doubles forward again, lips at your ear. "You're the best season I've had in _years_ ," he praises. 

There's a strangled whimper from your throat at the praise and you can feel the gush of fluid your pussy gives him in response. Maybe you've adopted more of a praise kink from Jamack - you're basking in his compliments. 

" _Please_ , Jamack," you beg, unsure of what you're asking. For him to fuck you harder? To make you cum - to fill you up? To be a little _toy_ and to feel good? His hips are grinding into you and he sucks at your shoulder, as if to say - 

"You're a perfect little _breeder_ ," he groans into your ear, a smug smirk to his lips. Jamack knows you share a little kink for things like this - hence why he knew you'd be so _eager_ to help him through a rut - and it's a perfect match for him. He loves the intimacy, loves feeling you clench around him; he craves the feeling of you, warm and soft below him. "Look at you doll, taking me so well."

Fuck it, as long as you're responsive, he's going to indulge. 

"You're so soft, so warm and easy to _please_." Jamacks hand grips at your stomach below, squeezing the skin and kneading it under his fingertips. "And you're gonna take all of me, I'm going to fill you until you _leak_ ," he croaks again, hazy eyes looking over the skin of your shoulder. All he sees is you squirming beneath him, then the bruised hickey at your neck, then the expanse of bare skin to mark and _mark_ _and mark_. The fantasy of you: disheveled and covered in love bites from him, being paraded around to proudly show off how _excellent_ you two are, has his hips stuttering in their rythm.

"You look so good, makin' little tadpoles for _me_." His teeth are at your shoulder with a knife sharp knip, his wide mouth easily encompassing from your mid-arm to your clavicle. "You should've talked this over more: you'll be so full of 'em by the time I'm done with you." 

That's an idea that has his cock pulsing in you, edging him dangerously close to release. You'd be a good little nest - what with humans and their stupid 'parental bonding'. "You'd love that, hmm doll?" You'd be with _him_ , with dozens of Jamack's tadpoles, his own little pond from you're screwed up duo. 

There's the brief knowledge that humans carry their young inside. Jamack's brain goes into a perverted, lust-induced overdrive at the thought of you, round and carrying dozens of his - " _Fuck_ ," he swears into your shoulderblade with a churr-like _whine_.

He can't even finish the thought, let alone vocalise it to you. 

You're holding your breath and moaning lewdly under him, the pulsing waves of pleasure radiating from your fingertips and the sweet praise of his words. You're pinned completely underneath him and prevented from rocking too far forward by his toothy grip at your shoulder. It allows Jamack to press his hips deeper into you, grinding in small circles whenever he bottoms out. You're puffing out short, sharp breaths of air whenever you can't hold your breath. Your brows are knit, eyes scrunching tightly shut as you focus at your own pleasure. His words are lost at the thrumming of your heartbeat, and you can't focus on his last few murmurs since he's gripping and pounding at you fiercely. 

"Please, please please _please_ make me," you chant to Jamack. "Please make me cum, please I'll let you do anything, I'll be a good little breeder 'nd give you so ma-many…" You huff, utterly embarrassed that you're so eager to delve further into a breeding kink. Still, you can't stop the spark of arousal - you're so _close_ . At this point, you'll chant anything to your lover just to _cum_. 

You squirm, you clench, you thrust your hips back and rub at your clit with bruising force. 

"That's what I wanna see, doll," Jamacks words are just barely coherent as he murmurs them into the skin of your shoulder, "Use me to feel good. Enjoy it, 'nd I'll _treat you_."

" _Shit,"_ you choke out. _That_ does it for you. Your pussy clenches tight around Jamack in a vice, a violent shiver rolling down your spine as you cum. The force of your climax sparks through your thighs, over each leisurely rub of your clit, adding to the blazing waves of pleasure cascading down through you. 

Jamacks voice is fatigued as he chokes out a groan mixed with a croak, holding you needily to his as he pumps into you once, twice, then a final third time. He pushes in hard, making sure to stay deep within you as you ride out your high. You're coming down just as he picks his pace up, teeth kneading hard at your shoulder as he thrusts much too sharp into you. You're so good at his, so good to _him_ , and he's filled with such a need to keep you as his - you'll help him through the week, there's no competition to keep you, you'll be with him only and they'll be so many tadpoles between the two of you and you'll beg and _beg_ and _please_ -

Jamack has one last final thrust that has his eyes shut tight and he groans, low and loud, finally reaching his release. You can feel his muscles tensing above you, then the thick, forceful ropes of cum that shoot into your tight cavern. It's so much more considering you've just been filled. Your position has gravity pulling it into you and you can practically feel two of the spurts hit somewhere deeper than ever before - you can only imagine _where_. Your hand is at your abdomen, pressing slightly at the bloat you feel. 

Jamack releases his grip at your hips and stomach, teeth pulling back and leaving multiple crescent indents around your shoulder. His arms position themselves in the rocks below as he pants. 

Unsupported by Jamack, you slowly sink into the ground, the coolness of the water lapping at your sweaty, heated skin. Jamack follows you down, his hips staying joined with you as he curls to you, arms shuddering to hold his weight above. His cock, finally spent, goes limp, slowly retracting from you and back into its sheath. 

There's a moment of panting as Jamack rolls to your side, falling into the incline of rocks. You lay at your stomach as you position your head on top of your folded arms for a makeshift pillow. Comfortable silence has you both basking in the afterglow. You can feel the hair sticking to your forehead, the numbness of your probably wrinkled toes in the water - it's all you can focus on to stop yourself from passing out. 

Now _that_ was the high you wanted. 

You hum in thought, eyes opening part-way to face Jamack. "So, tadpoles, huh?" You softly tease. You surmise it's a normal thing to talk dirty about - for frogs - yet hearing it yourself has it sounding disturbingly kinky.

Jamack gives you a disgusted, tired sneer as he sits from his position, fingers eagerly grasping for his dress shirt again. "Shut up," he counters, his tone breathy and tired. The sound of your chuckle rings through his humming head, and he sighs, lips barely upturning in a smile. "It's a heat thing. You know: for the 'betterment of the pond'?" 

Jamack isn't looking at you, a flush of dark green sitting heavy across his nose. He feels gross for thinking it, and even worse for outright voicing most of it to you. Jamack has no urge to develop a parental relationship - especially not one you'd be familiar with - and he really, _really_ doesn't want to explain frog's definition of child rearing. He doesn't _want_ you to know. It's all just horny talk to get him going.

It's not like he _enjoyed_ it, or the _thought_ , or anything.

 _Stupid rut_ , making him say _stupid things_. 

The quote seems to hold more meaning to Jamack than to you, but you follow with his empty laughter. "Yeah, and it's _this_ pond that's freezing my feet." You roll to your back and sit with a groan, using the water to wash off the mess of your activities. Like most things with Jamack, you'll be putting a pin in that topic for later. That might not have been your go-to kink, but the idea seemed to really deliver while he was humping you. 

"Was it good?"

Jamack has his feet in the pond water, letting the waves lap at his toes. It feels _good_ . "Hm? Well, a good ending for my _first_ day of rut, at least." He's very relieved you're not pressing the matter. 

You coo to yourself as you tug your shirt on, stuttering a few breaths. You're exhausted and sore right now, the fingertip bruises of Jamack already starting to darken in lilac patches. " _First day_?" you groan as you lift to your feet, legs knocking and wobbly, "Ah, shit, what did you talk me into." 

"I did warn you. To be fair, there wasn't much talking." Jamack leans back once he's fixed up his pants and shirt, digging his fingers into the pebbles of the shoreline as his arms lock behind him. "You'd make a horrible business negotiator." 

You chuckle, running your fingers through your hair as you look him over. He's obviously avoiding watching you. Perhaps he's pleasantly airheaded from the workout, you wonder. You tread lazily to his spot, leaning down. Even sitting, his eyes come to your collarbone. You hesitate for a moment - Jamack has closed eyes to avoid meeting yours - before you press your lips softly to the rough skin of his cheek in a chaste kiss.

You right yourself and glance at the sky. The leaves of the tree are too dense for you to discern what stage of sunset the day has melded to, but the cool descent of air has you inferring it's about to be nightfall. Your feet rub together as you tread in place, trying to warm them. 

You really hoped you could convince him to cuddle tonight. You part from him, in search of the other clothes you've discarded. Jamack peers at you through squinted eyes and a poorly concealed smile, stretching forward to grasp at the fabric of his cut tie. 

"Why're you getting dressed, by the way?" You inquire. "Besides to be warm, I mean - don't you want to like, cuddle?"

Jamack guffs as he stops stringing his tie around his neck, looking at you dumbfounded. It's instinctual for him, socially ingrained to be fully clothed and kept like something private hadn't just happened. "I, uhm," he starts, suddenly shy at your implication. Co-sleeping near naked with you sounds temptingly naughty, though the last time it happened you were both rather drunk. You were both secluded somewhere safe, too, unlike now. "Well, I," he pauses, " _Suppose_ I don't need to be _fully_ in my suit."

You're heading back to the little nest you've built - pantless yet with underwear, Jamack notes as his eyes focus on your backside - no doubt ready to welcome him when he meets you. There's an idle moment. He _should_ be getting fully composed, dulling his senses to the thought of you and sex while he returns to his air of professionalism. There should be a fire made up, something small to not suffocate you both under the dredge of foliage. 

What shouldn't be happening is his legs moving of their own accord, following you to the hollowed out base of the tree. Exhausted irritation would be a good excuse to quip at you, to explain that holding up with someone for the entirety of a heat season is absurd; that being as _loud_ as you two were is absurd. Especially how you're still in a scruffy state - Jamack will never know why you're so _idiotically_ comfortable enough with him to do so.

His chest sweels with pride, recognising that you're only this comfortable around himself. 

"Look," you call out to him, "I know it's not like back at your pond." You tread the words carefully, not wanting to aggrevate your companion who you're sure is going through some turmoil. Jamack is the _worst_ with post-coitous emotions. "But, ya'know, I agreed to be with you through it, and we're _together._ And, if we're apparently gonna be coupled up here for awhile, why not make the best of it?"

You smile out to him, eyes shining and tired. He looks to your cheek, churning the thought before 'tsk'ing and shaking his head. He wants to tell you that your sentiment is compleatly foreign in this situation, unintentionally furthering his detachment from Mod Frog culture. You weren't the pond - but perhaps he'll indulge in the differences to find something better. 

"Just put some pants on, first. I'm not going to be rescuing you if you're eaten by some mega-mute while trying to get decent."

You laugh, falling to your blankets below. Most of the blankets spill outside the concave tree, acting as a makeshift porch. "What about you? Have anything besides wet pants?" You struggle with the fabric of your own jeans agaisnt the dampness of your skin. "We really need something to sleep in."

"Alright alright, move over before we both freeze." Jamack reluctantly parts with his pants again, hanging them neatly from the tree. "Undergarments are staying _on_ ," he declares. Jamack settles heavily beside you, lying at his back with his hands folded behind his head. While he makes no move to drape his arms over you, he welcomes you to his side when you nuzzle into him, head tilting in your direction.

He supposes letting you get a bit of rest before the next wave hits is the best idea for now. It didn't take you long to pass out. 

As nightfall settles further into darkness, Jamack peers over to your sleeping, curled up form. His hand cautiously reaches towards the tussle of hair sprawled around your head. His fingers drag across your scalp in feather light touches, combing through your soft locks of hair. It's comforting, having you this close to him - having you this trusting. For once, his head remains pleasantly empty, only focusing on the moment he's sharing with you. 

He won't admit it aloud, of course, but Jamack is getting more reliant on your influence. He shudders from the cool air, tongue extending to grab the edge of the blanket to tug it around you both. 

You smell so good to him, he thinks as he shuffles to his side, squeezing you close into his chest. 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me indulge a little more, will 'ya? 'M laying my kinks bare, here.
> 
> *edited for some spelling errors 8/17


End file.
